The Will To Live

by Tanya Landman

  Graham looked at me. We both knew that I’d had that kind of Deep Down Gut Feeling once before, and on that occasion I’d ignored it. It had nearly resulted in both of us having our throats torn out.

  “Do you have a theory?” asked Graham.

  “Yes, I do.” I’d had plenty of time to think it through. “If Lancelot is telling the truth, there’s only one explanation: somebody framed him. There were no photos of that wedding as far as we know – Toulouse didn’t have a clue what Lancelot looked like, that’s why he asked me to point him out. Anyone could have pretended to be Lancelot. Stolen his passport. Forged his signature. It would have been fairly easy if you knew what you were doing.”

  “I suppose so. But it’s very odd.”

  “You’re right. And I’ll tell you another thing that’s odd – when Toulouse kept accusing Lancelot of marrying his sister, he said he was going to find proof. But why say that if he had the marriage certificate? Why didn’t he just pull it out? If he had it, why not use it?”

  “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me…”

  “Because he didn’t have it! Someone planted that certificate in the bag after Toulouse was electrocuted. I’ll bet it was the same person who told him to use the outside toilet in the first place.”

  “What?” Graham looked bemused.

  “Think about it. Toulouse needed the loo. He wouldn’t have known where it was. What do you do if you’re in a strange place? You ask for directions. Someone sent him out there – and whoever it was knew that the wiring was dangerous. I bet Camille’s ‘accidental’ death was murder too.”

  “And the point of all this would be…?”

  “To make sure Lancelot didn’t inherit! It’s all to do with this codicil thing.” I paused, then asked, “What is a codicil, anyway?”

  “It’s a wording added to a will explaining or altering the contents. Lord Albert Strudwick…”

  “The Nazi?”

  “Yes, him. From what we overheard this morning, I think we can deduce that he added a clause to his will stipulating that whoever inherits the estate has to marry a British partner from a ‘good’ family, whatever that means.”

  “Talk about snobbish! OK, well, Julian’s ruled himself out by marrying Joe. And this whole set-up with Camille seems to be designed to cut out Lancelot. So who benefits? Who would the estate go to if neither of them can inherit? Jennifer? Lydia?”

  Graham considered my question. I detected signs of Deep Thought, so I sat still and waited. “I don’t think so,” he said at last. “Lord Albert Strudwick seems to have had very old-fashioned ideas about class and tradition and that sort of thing. I would assume therefore that the estate would be handed down through the male line.”

  “But there aren’t any other male Strudwicks.”

  Graham raised an eyebrow. “You’re forgetting why we’re here.”

  “The christening? But Marmaduke’s a baby… He can’t have had anything to do with it!” In the soft glow of the embers our eyes met. “Ah… I see… Marmaduke couldn’t…”

  Graham finished my sentence for me. “But his parents could.”

  “So what do we think?” I said after a while. “That Jennifer planned the whole thing?” I answered my own question, continuing my train of thought. “She’d know all about the will and probably what Lancelot’s signature looks like. She seems nice enough, but I guess she could be protecting Marmaduke’s interests. She could have got Gethin to pose as Lancelot and marry Camille.” I sighed. This was where the theory started to fall down. Gethin was a big, strapping, rugby-playing sort. He’d kept well out of the Strudwicks’ arguments, only wading in when his own family background had been attacked, and even then he had been straightforward about it – he’d said what he meant, no messing about. Either it was a very good act or he wasn’t capable of impersonating his wife’s cousin, marrying a perfectly innocent woman and then murdering her.

  His wife’s brother, on the other hand, was a different personality altogether. Julian had married Joe in secret. Maybe he was just a very private person – or maybe there was more to it than that.

  “You know, it could have been Julian,” I said. “They all grew up together – he’d know exactly what Lancelot’s handwriting is like. And he really hates him – you can see it in his eyes.”

  “The feeling seems to be mutual. There’s certainly no love lost between the two of them.”

  “And Julian said that thing about his sister and her son not being ruled out of the inheritance, so he’s obviously thought about it all. It would have been easy for him to impersonate Lancelot – they look so alike, in any case. Maybe he’s been plotting with Jennifer!”

  “It’s certainly possible,” Graham agreed. “And if that’s the case, could Joe be implicated?”

  “Yes, that figures. It seems too much of a coincidence otherwise, doesn’t it? Joe being Canadian, Camille dying there, him speaking French – it must all be linked!”

  We talked until the last few dying embers of the Aga fire had gone out. Not knowing how long we’d be stranded at the manor, we didn’t dare put any more in. There was nothing for it but to go to bed.

  LOCAL KNOWLEDGE

  I slept badly that night – the floor was cold and hard and Major Huwes-Guffing snored so loudly that I couldn’t do more than doze for a few minutes at a stretch. By the time the grey light of a soggy dawn broke through the curtains I was feeling groggy and thirsty. I got up and went in search of a glass of water.

  I wasn’t the only person up and about. Joe was in the kitchen frying something on the Aga, wide awake, fully dressed and wearing a heavy overcoat that was flecked with raindrops.

  “Another early riser!” he said cheerily. “Good morning.”

  He seemed so friendly. Happy. Open. Honest. Could he really be part of Jennifer and Julian’s conspiracy? Looking at him now, it seemed highly unlikely. “Have you been out for a walk?” I asked politely.

  “Yep. Been out picking blueberries in the woods right over there. Had to get some fresh air. The atmosphere in this place is kinda stifling.”

  “I know what you mean,” I agreed.

  “I’ll sure be glad to get back home,” he confessed.

  “Where’s that? Canada?”

  “No, I meant our place in Brighton. Jules and me, we got an apartment looks out to sea. I haven’t been back to Canada in years.”

  “Really?” I asked innocently. “Haven’t you ever taken Julian?”

  “No, not yet.” He smiled. “But I’m working on it. I’ve been trying to get him to travel, but he’s such a stay-at-home Brit! He’s way too fond of his tea and his cricket and his warm beer. I’m trying to widen his horizons, bit by bit. Starting with breakfast. No bacon and eggs this morning. Pancakes: Canadian style.”

  I decided then and there that I liked Joe. He was nice. And yet there was something unsettling about our conversation. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. Without wanting to seem too obvious I studied Joe’s face. He seemed to be telling the truth. And if he hadn’t been in Canada for years he probably hadn’t been involved in the whole Camille thing, had he? Which meant that Julian couldn’t have been either. Unless Julian was keeping secrets from his new husband?

  “Want one of these?” Joe held out a pancake. It smelt delicious but I could see he’d only cooked enough for himself and Julian. I didn’t want to deprive either of them of their breakfast. Plus it felt way too early to be eating.

  “No, I’m fine, thanks. I’ll have a bowl of cereal or something later.”

  Joe put the two plates of pancakes on a tray. “OK. See ya,” he said, backing out of the door.

  I was so tired I wasn’t thinking straight. There was a question niggling away at the back of my head but I couldn’t work out what it was. Something was deeply wrong with what Joe had said. What was it?

  I fetched a glass, filled it with water and went to stand by the Aga where it was warm. I drank slowly, thoughts circling in my head. It wasn’t until
I’d drained the last drop that I realized what was bothering me.

  Joe had said he’d picked blueberries. “In the woods right over there.” He’d put some into those pancakes. I’d watched him do it.

  My mum’s a gardener – I know about plants.

  Blueberries don’t grow wild in this country. Not in the autumn. Not in the woods. Not anywhere.

  But deadly nightshade does. The berries are the same size. The same shape. The same colour. And it’s not called “deadly” for nothing.

  I dropped the glass I was holding and it shattered over the floor. I pelted along the corridor to the main staircase. I had no idea which room Julian and Joe were in, so I started yelling, “Don’t eat the—”

  It was already too late. From upstairs I could hear the sound of Julian screaming for help. And Joe retching.

  The Strudwicks and their guests woke that morning to the dreadful sound of Joe’s dying gasps.

  A FAMILY AFFAIR

  IT was a horrible morning. Julian’s screams caused total panic and suddenly there were guests rushing along corridors and up and down the stairs, nearly trampling me in the stampede. As soon as Jennifer realized what was happening she had the presence of mind to yell for the vicar, but he was only a first aider, and despite his best efforts there was nothing he could do for the Canadian. And, hard as he tried, he couldn’t comfort Julian. Joe’s husband was distraught. His sobs echoed down the corridors while guests trailed miserably back to the drawing-room.

  Sally – being a chef – was convinced that food was the only solution to any crisis. She threw fresh logs onto the embers of the drawing-room fire, and as soon as it was roaring away began toasting slices of bread over it. Graham and I were dispatched to the kitchen for tea-brewing duty, which suited us just fine.

  The general view amongst the guests seemed to be that Joe’s violent death had been another dreadful accident. Major Huwes-Guffing had mumbled things about “Johnny Foreigner” and how Joe had been a “colonial who didn’t understand British ways” and that if people didn’t stay in their own countries where they belonged, well, these things were bound to happen.

  Graham and I, on the other hand, were pretty sure it was murder.

  “Whoever’s behind all this is fantastically clever,” I commented as we waited for the pans of water to boil. “I mean, it was Joe who went out and picked those berries. And I saw him frying the pancakes myself. He offered me one! But the big question, is why did he pick them in the first place? He’s from Canada – why did he think blueberries grew in the woods here?”

  “You think someone told him they did?”

  “Yes, I do. He was going on about the joys of blueberry pancakes yesterday to Julian. Anyone could have overheard him. It would have been an easy way of getting him to poison himself. Julian too, if he’d eaten any. I wonder why he didn’t?”

  Graham shrugged. “It was very early. Maybe he was too sleepy to eat.”

  “That would figure. I wasn’t hungry either.” I sighed. “It’s sick! Literally.”

  “But why would anyone want to kill Joe?”

  “I don’t know!” I thought about him reading out Camille’s postcard. “He made that remark about not seeing polar bears in the summer. It seemed innocent enough at the time. But if whoever killed Camille was there – and they probably were – they might have worried that he would work out that she didn’t die by accident. That someone took her there at that time of year simply to kill her. Joe probably died for the same reason Toulouse did – to cover up the truth about Lancelot’s supposed marriage to Camille.”

  “It’s a long shot.”

  “It’s all long shots! This whole thing is bizarre.” I grabbed a teapot and sluiced out the old leaves. “We need to start at the beginning – it’s to do with the will, right?”

  “Inherited wealth. Pursuing the Strudwick fortune certainly seems like the strongest motive anyone could have.”

  “OK. So nasty-Nazi Lord Albert dies, leaving the estate to his eldest son, James. Only James is missing so Lawrence takes over. James and Lawrence both die on the same day, which, assuming that the estate is handed down through the male line, means that either Julian or Lancelot inherit the lot. But Julian’s married and so, apparently, is Lancelot. Everything therefore goes to Marmaduke. Jennifer’s got to be behind it, hasn’t she? It’s the only possible solution.”

  “That theory certainly seems to fit the facts.”

  “It just doesn’t feel right, though. If it was Lydia, I could believe it. She seems capable of anything. But Jennifer? She’s so nice!”

  “She may be a very convincing actress,” Graham pointed out as he rinsed a second teapot.

  “True. Let’s say she got Julian to marry Camille. Camille gets killed, but now Jennifer’s got the wedding certificate which will rule Lancelot out of the inheritance. Only then Toulouse shows up unexpectedly. So she arranges an accident for him. And when she thinks Joe might be about to work out that Camille was murdered, she tells him there are blueberries growing in the woods. Maybe she knows Julian won’t eat them because he’s such a bacon-and-eggs man. Or maybe she just doesn’t care if her brother dies too. It works as a theory, doesn’t it? It all fits.”

  “What fits?”

  Our conversation was suddenly interrupted by our chief suspect. Jennifer was standing in the kitchen doorway, Marmaduke on her hip. She was wearing a wounded expression.

  “Are you talking about the clothes I gave you?” she asked. “Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t find anything more suitable. I know they’re terribly old-fashioned. I just thought you’d rather be clean and dry.”

  “The clothes are great!” I said hastily. “Well, not great, but… Look, it was really kind of you. We’d have probably got a chill or something otherwise. Thank you.”

  Luckily Marmaduke spotted Graham, which distracted his mother from my nervous babbling. The baby held out his little arms and gurgled, so Jennifer came right in, handed him to Graham and then sat down at the scrubbed pine table. I noticed how drawn and anxious she looked.

  “Sorry to be so prickly.” She sighed. “But the last twenty-four hours have been dreadful!”

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” I offered. “The water’s nearly boiled.”

  “Yes, please.” In the kitchen she seemed to forget that Graham and I were a) children and b) staff, and soon she was chatting away like we were old friends. She was either trying to put us off the scent or she was genuinely desperate for someone to talk to who wasn’t connected with the family.

  “I was hoping for a pleasant reunion, you know? I thought a baby would bring us all together. That’s why I asked Lydia to be a godparent. I should have known better than to try building bridges. I’ll be so glad to get away from this wretched house! I don’t care if I never see it again.”

  This didn’t sound like the attitude of someone who had schemed and plotted and murdered to get hold of the place. Was she was faking it? Or was our theory wrong? I decided to test it out.

  “But won’t Marmaduke inherit it?” I asked.

  Jennifer looked astonished. “Marmaduke? Good Lord, no! Whatever gave you that idea?”

  Graham jiggled the baby inexpertly and said, “We just assumed the estate would pass down through the male line.”

  “I suppose that might be the normal way of doing things for an estate like ours. But my grandfather was far from normal.” She scraped a stray lock of hair behind her ear and then explained, “When he died it was supposed to pass to my father, James. But Grandfather’s will was terribly complicated. He was such a control freak! He wanted to manipulate everyone the whole time, even from beyond the grave. If Father died while Uncle Lawrence was still alive, the whole place would go to Lawrence and then on his death would pass on to his son, provided that Lancelot marry someone who Grandfather considered ‘suitable’. He was a mindless old bigot! I loathed him. He couldn’t endure anyone he considered to be beneath us. And now there’s this strange business with Lancelot marry
ing a French girl! I suppose it will have to be looked into. If he really did marry her then the place will go to Lydia.”

  “Lydia?” I said.

  “Lydia?” Graham echoed.

  Across the kitchen table, Graham’s eyes met mine. I was so startled by Jennifer’s explanation that I couldn’t help blurting out, “Except James didn’t die first!”

  I’d been speaking to Graham but it was Jennifer who demanded, “What on earth do you mean?”

  I couldn’t wriggle out of it – I had made too dramatic a statement. All I could do was say hesitantly, “Well, when we found the body in the graveyard I noticed his nails were super clean. Yet Lawrence’s were dirty – like he was the one who’d been sleeping rough for years. I know it sounds weird, but we thought that maybe they’d swapped clothes.”

  “But that would mean…” Jennifer’s lips went a horrible lilac-grey and her skin faded to the colour of ivory. It was just as well that Graham was holding the baby because she slumped forward, cracking her head on the kitchen table.

  Jennifer had only fainted and it didn’t take her long to come round, but when she did she burst into noisy, gasping sobs. I found some kitchen roll to mop up her tears and Graham bounced Marmaduke up and down awkwardly, and after about five minutes Jennifer said, “I wondered if it was Daddy! Just for a second, you know? The thought flashed through my mind. I hadn’t seen him for so long, though – not since I was a child – and he and Lawrence always looked so alike. I thought I was being silly. But it was him. It really was! And he held Marmaduke before he died! He knew he was a grandfather! I’m so happy!”

  She didn’t sound it. She was crying again, and making so much noise that her choking sobs acted like a homing beacon on the vicar, who now appeared in the kitchen. Graham and I took the pans off the stove and poured boiling water into the teapots while Reverend Bristow sat beside Jennifer at the kitchen table, patting her hand and murmuring soothing phrases.

  “It’s all been a terrible strain,” he said. “There, there, let it all out. You’ll feel better after a good cry.”